


Searching For a Clarity

by carnelianbrooks (riverlatreaux)



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Implied Zukka, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Internal Monologue, M/M, POV First Person, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:33:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24829156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riverlatreaux/pseuds/carnelianbrooks
Summary: Zuko has been told that getting your thoughts on paper is sometimes a helpful way to work through mental blocks.Zuko tries, and finds himself no better off from where he started.
Relationships: Sokka/Zuko (Avatar)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 30





	Searching For a Clarity

What do I do from here? Where do I go? I once thought that being lost was my destiny; my honor was never found, an X on a map in a language I could never read or speak. I once thought that my uncle never understood what I needed or who I was, but I now think that he was the only one who knew what was coming.

My uncle Iroh: the Dragon of the West, a man once revered for his skill and competence in battle. I truly don’t think that he knew what he was doing back then, if my life experiences have taught me anything. If he was anything like me, and something deep within my soul tells me he was, he didn’t learn omniscience on the battlefield until long after he was away from it all. He needed to look at his life through an objective wide-focus lens to finally see the bigger picture. 

I once thought that perhaps that’s what my father was attempting to do, but just very poorly. I now see that he didn’t care about his son. Was I ever a son to him? Or a disposable pawn in the world’s most capitalist imperial game of Pai Sho ever conceived of? 

I feel as if I must look over my shoulder now, in fear that my uncle could feel this heresy be conspired on paper. His blood would curdle at that sentence, I think. Ozai’s perspective on the value of a human life on the battlefield completely contradicts the spirit of my uncle’s Pai Sho tiles. Ozai would look deep into my soul with simply his eyes and tell me that battles are best left to the little wooden chips that compile the round table. 

The wide circular Pai Sho game board; he always tried to tell me that it was much more than a game. Now that all I can do is reflect and contemplate and think and be _alone in my insane ramblings **why is there no one else here in my brain to help me**_ – life is probably defined best as one person, surrounded by many other people, their interactions completing and complimenting one-another in turns. Whether that be positively or negatively is up to the conspirator of destiny, I suppose.

So where did I think I was ever going to find honor? Is honor a thing to be sought after? Could honor have ever been captured within the clutches of my old, hungry, weathered gloves? Is honor given by somebody to another, or is it assigned at birth unfairly and without remorse? Is it given to oneself, after they’ve deemed themself worthy?

What is even self-worth, and why do I immediately dismiss myself as undeserving of it?

It must have to do with self-love.

When is a human worthy of love? I have only ever wanted love, or to be loved. This was the case in my younger days – hell, even now that I’m older. Is love attainable… am I deserving of love after the sins I’ve committed? The years I’ve spent attempting to atone for my past self’s sins, I’ve tried so hard to wash my hands of the blood and grime that someone I don’t even recognize as myself placed there, no matter how many times I wash with water _it won’t come off I can’t get **clean why can’t I get clean**_ –

My neuroses have gotten worse, I’m told. I’m at my wit’s end, I’m told. What, exactly, is the end of a wit? Is it measurable by a stick or rope? Or are, pray tell, people supposed to guess what my 'wit' is by their perceptions of me, and then point and declare and assign that I’m undeserving of sanity? I don’t want to be told that I’m losing my grip, I don’t want to be considered an inconvenience by friends that once considered me confidants. 

I don’t want the light behind his eyes to fade when he looks at me. I don’t want to forget his smile, his raucous laughter after a terrible joke, I- I don’t want him to stop loving me.

Did he ever truly love me? My heart tells me ‘yes, of course, he must have’, but is that just wishful thinking? I want that so badly to not be the case: that I conceived of that dream in my mind and that’s all I see – something out of truly nothing? A 'what could have been', had I been less evil, more attractive, more- hell, good enough, not _me_ , anything other than the once-terrible feared name of Zuko, the Fire Lord’s Banished Son?

I don’t think I could bear it. What if he will never care for me the way that he does the others? 

When I first met them, I perceived his kindness, or at least a willingness to try. Throughout the years, I’d seen the smiles, the attempts and successes at trusting me, and for what? What’s loveable about…

I look at myself in the mirror more than usual lately. 

I don’t want to look at this face anymore.

I should throw this parchment away, burn it with the healing hellfire that curses my fingertips, the sheer heat that I feel rage within my heart and soul. My entire being swells with an incomparable power. At least, I can’t compare it to anything else I’ve felt. 

And to think that I was so well-traveled.

Several years on the open sea apparently did nothing for my self-perception. I suppose what Ozai wanted is what I got – I’ve been knocked down a peg. Or, several, more truthfully. 

In my goal to be the strongest version of myself, I’ve realized that I’m one of the weakest people I’ve ever met. In strength, power, and wit, I’m outplayed and bested by everyone I’ve come to know. It doesn’t take the power of bending to have potential, I’ve come to know. Whether Kyoshi-trained or purely willful and determined, I’ve been beaten in battles both physical and mental by seemingly everyone with a pulse and a passion for freedom across our dusty map of the landmasses we’ve all called home. 

I know that was not Ozai’s wishes for me: to come back to be a worthy, well-rounded, and culturally-educated successor to the throne. I know now that his hopes were for Zhao to find my corpse floating across the unloving embrace of the South Pole’s ice caps.

But somehow, I survived. Despite everyone’s best and worst wishes for my life, I persevered and made it back to the Fire Nation.

The life I’ve lived – would I wish it upon my greatest enemy? I don’t know. 

Would I wish it upon someone whose heart needs healed by the love of others? Depends on what side of the war you were on, I suppose.

The scar that mars my face haunts me. And, no, I don’t mean my wicked near-sightedness and terrible depth-perception on the right side, but it certainly doesn’t help when I remember that most people don’t share this experience. Don’t get me wrong, me... Toph is an incredible and inspiring soul, but going further into my respect for her would cause me to go more off-track in my thoughts than I already have. Deep down, I know that I’m not as strong as her. I’ve been blind for so long, that I would be truly lost without my ability to see. 

...At all, I mean. My eyesight might’ve been destroyed beyond repair, but I can still see a softness and love on his face in a way that Toph can only perceive from vocal tone and racing pulse.

My mind is rattled with an incredible weight of guilt and anxiety that is unique to me. Many, if not all, have guilts and anxieties in one way or another; to think otherwise would be contradictory to the truth, and conflagration in the face of the pains that my ancestors directly caused. No, no, we all have mental and emotional strife, it’s only natural after a shared trauma. War will do that to you.

Does this then mean I shouldn’t complain, especially because I was the ‘bad guy’ for so many years? Children of supremacists are natured and nurtured into racism and horrific ideologies, but that doesn’t make them any less accountable for change or atonement. I will spend the rest of my life attempting to apologize for the wrongdoings of myself, my birthright, my people…

The scar on my face is a constant reminder that I, as a person, am fundamentally flawed. My past and my decisions make me feel a desire to apologize and attempt to do better, as I should – to feel otherwise would be irresponsible and dangerous to anyone around me. I don’t expect forgiveness from everyone; to expect to forgive from a simple apology is no better than demanding it.

Wow, my uncle really did rub off on me.

But I don’t consider that a bad thing. 

At least, not anymore. 

There was a time when I used to. Of course, I can’t deny that. Anyone that spent an hour on one of our fleets could see the hatred radiate off me. A powerful, sickening aura. 

I truly hate that boy, I do. But despite that, am I any better than that teenager? In a lot of ways, of course, but… the thoughts turn into anxieties about my self-worth, and there I go again.

My brain spirals around once again to a debate that I’ve had with myself only minutes prior. A never-ending line of thought, a circle… much like a Pai Sho table.

I need a drink.


End file.
